


I Was Born to Run (I Don't Belong to Anyone)

by A_Murder_of_Pigeons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Gen, Identity Issues, Loss of Identity, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, brief mentions of canon-typical poor treatment of hydra asset (in this case Natasha), damn it Clint, it's centered around identity not violence but i thought it was still worth mentioning, rated T because Clint cursed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Murder_of_Pigeons/pseuds/A_Murder_of_Pigeons
Summary: A freshly defected Natasha Romanov makes a friend and makes peace with herself, in that order.*"Clint turns toward her, face dropping from friendliness to nervous concern as he sees her expression. 'Oh no, what’d I say?! I didn’t mean it, don’t cry!'In shock, Natasha wipes her eyes. She was so focused on what he’d been saying, she hadn’t noticed her own tears. It’s hard to tell whether she should be alarmed at her own loss of control, or amazed at how Clint had spoken right to the small, bruised remains of her sense of self."
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	I Was Born to Run (I Don't Belong to Anyone)

**Author's Note:**

> Or: Episode ??? of Pigeon tries to answer existential questions through fictional characters. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Some necessary background: here Natasha is basically freshly defected (from Hydra? the Red Room? are they the same thing?) and a new SHIELD agent, which is how she's interacted with Clint previously. I assume they're hanging out in SHIELD barracks or something in this.   
> Please excuse my abuse of ellipses, as well as any potential inaccuracies in Black Widow lore as I have alas only seen the movies and not read any comics. Gotta get this out before the Black Widow movie, which is finally happening! I mean it’s still the better part of a year away at this point, but still.
> 
> Title is from “Midnight Sky” by Miley Cyrus which I listened to a lot while writing this.

The Black Widow prided herself on her invisibility. It didn’t matter what she wore, what she displayed or didn’t, when what people looked at wasn’t a person but a symbol.

And she was a master at it, at inscribing on herself what others wanted to see, at making herself an archetype of desire. No need to look any deeper, that way. 

Over the years, this had become Natasha’s modus operandi too, in a sense. Present a plainly unremarkable front, and who would see the Black Widow lurking underneath? But there was something about working with SHIELD, staying with those who already knew the Black Widow, that put _Natasha_ in a state of flux.

How can one operate under an assumption of invisibility when one has already been seen? If _Natasha_ is a guise of normalcy for the Black Widow, then that guise is meaningless, but if _Natasha_ is to be the sum of her parts, Natasha, and Black Widow, and Agent (and... friend?), then she is no longer a series of costumes. If every part of her is seen by these someones she has grown to care about, then every part starts to form a meaningful piece of her identity.

To be seen is to be known, and to be known is to exist. She is not sure that she knows how to exist as a cohesive whole, as a person rather than the various aliases of a tool. What does it mean to be motivated by an internal sense of self rather than a sense of the character she is meant to be playing?

She is lurking around Clint one night, as she is sometimes wont to do. He is perhaps one of the most self-motivated (in every sense of the words) people she has ever come across, and therefore an excellent place to begin the research for these questions.

“Clint.”

The popcorn flies out of the bowl as the bowl flies from his hands. “Natasha! Hello! What! Aw popcorn, no-”, he pouts. “You wanna join my movie night?”

She sits down a cushion away from Clint, and they both take this for the affirmation that it is.

“Cool,” Clint settles back onto the sofa, and they quietly watch what seems to be a show where all of the characters are dogs and some are cops. Quietly, that is, until he gets a phone call.

He answers quickly, sending a sheepish look her way. “Barton here, what’s-”, he stops suddenly, brows furrowing. “No, Barney, I can’t just- ... That’s not what I- oh _now_ you want to go there?”

The dogs onscreen could be doing anything at this point for all the attention she’s paying them. Then Clint quiets for some time, slowly slumping back into the couch cushions. His previous agitation seems to abandon him completely as he tiredly stares into the distance, “No, you’re right. You’re right... I could- oh, okay... Okay... Sorr-”, he frowns down at the phone, a faint dial tone audible even to Natasha.

Clint looks over at her ostensibly watching the TV. He is under no illusion about whether or not she’s heard everything that was said (and everything that wasn’t). “My brother”, he says wryly, turning back to the show.

At this point, their relationship is still more work than play, but, for once, she feels almost curious. There’s no need to analyze him for weak spots or subtle tells, but she would like to know him all the same. It would be unsettling if she didn’t feel quite so safe around him.

She swings her leg over, gently nudging him with her socked foot to get his attention. “And?” she says to his surprised expression. There’s a pause. He wants to demur, so she nudges him again but with more force.

“Geez! Alright, alright. My brother and I... it’s complicated, but we had a hard childhood, and it affected us in different ways.” Clint shrugs, looking uncomfortable, “If we weren’t brothers, we’d probably never talk again. Maybe it’d be better that way...”

With a mark, Natasha might have pressed for more information about his past, or distracted him with her body, or made any number of calculations. It’s hard to turn off, but perhaps necessary. Is it more genuine to act quickly with instincts that others have trained into her, or consider the situation with care like she wants to? Is there a difference at this point?

Once the silence has well and truly entered the realm of awkwardness, Natasha breaks it with a stilted, “That must be difficult.”

“Be careful there, you might strain something,” Clint jokes. Deflecting with humor, another classic Clint-ism. It doesn’t feel quite as fun when she... well... genuinely might be in danger of pulling a muscle here.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Clint. I don’t know how to-” she breaks off, shaking her head.

“How to...?” He tilts his head at Natasha in exaggerated confusion. For someone who just made fun of her for straining herself, the faces he’s pulling might genuinely be putting his facial muscles in mortal peril.

“I... I don’t know how to just say things. I... There’s... There’s just no protocol for this! I know what the Black Widow would do in any given situation, but I don’t know what Natasha would do. I’ve been the Black Widow, the asset, the Red Room’s tool for so long that when I reach for Natasha, there’s nothing to draw from. I’ve been hollowed out. I don’t know who Natasha is, I don’t know what she would say to you about your brother.”

Horrified by her own outburst, Natasha leaps from the couch and is only prevented from escaping by Clint’s quick hand grabbing her wrist. The look she directs at said hand could melt steel beams.

He lets go quickly, “Please don’t go! I mean you can do whatever you want, I won’t stop you but you don’t have anything to be embarrassed of. Please stay.”

She stays, perching herself on the edge of a couch cushion.

“Nat...,” he takes a moment to gather himself, to blink away some of the shine that’s been gathering in his eyes. “Natasha, you are always yourself. I don’t know exactly happened to you before- and that’s okay! You don’t have to tell me anything!” he interrupts himself, noticing her tensing up even further.

“I know the type, though. People who try to convince you that they’ve... made you, somehow. I used to believe them, that I’d be nothing without,” he scoffs, “ _them._ That I wouldn’t be as fast without someone to run from, that I wouldn’t be able to shoot half so well without someone telling me where to aim, but... god, I don’t know, it’s...”

Clint struggles for a moment, starting and stopping while Natasha stares at him and forces herself not to tremble. His jaw clenches, and he turns sharply towards her. “No one can make you, can create you. People can shape your world, and they can influence you, but you are always you. You might not always have the power to control the affect people have on your life, but you are not your life. The work we do... you don’t become the people you pretend to be, you are the one pretending. You know-” he breaks off, looking speculative.

“I could’a turned out way different. I think it’s good to think about who you want to be and think about... how far off from that you might be,” he grins at her. “But wondering who you ‘really’ are, as though we aren’t all a clusterfuck of contradictions,” he shakes his head, looking downwards, “that’ll just drive you crazy. You are you! Always!”

Clint turns toward her, face dropping from friendliness to nervous concern as he sees her expression. “Oh no, what’d I say?! I didn’t mean it, don’t cry!”

In shock, Natasha wipes her eyes. She was so focused on what he’d been saying, she hadn’t noticed her own tears. It’s hard to tell whether she should be alarmed at her own loss of control, or amazed at how Clint had spoken right to the small, bruised remains of her sense of self.

After disregarding her own needs and wants for so long by necessity, she often feels completely disconnected from herself beyond the most basic demands of bodily function. But as he scurries around the room in search of a blanket, Natasha suddenly knows, fiercely and surely, that she wants to be Clint’s friend. The next time Clint passes within her reach, she grabs him. He squeaks, and she smiles with greater ease than she’s felt in years.

Grabbing one of his hands between both of hers, she calmly interrupts his nervous babbling with, “Clint. You did good... We’re friends. If that’s alright?”

Relief smooths over his expression. “Good! Yes, yes, let’s. Friends. You like pizza?”

“Haven’t tried it.”

Horrified, Clint grabs for his phone and begins dialing. “What?! NO! We need to- Yes hello, 2 large cheese pizzas?”

Basking in her friend's harried sounding phone call, Natasha smiles, not to entice or intimidate, but because she is happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Lmk what you thought/if you liked it :-)


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